These Things Take Forever
by Adhishthira
Summary: Sherlock contemplates his feelings for John before setting out on a case far from London. Something having to do with a downed ship and far to many deaths. It's a case of international importance, and a case that his dear Army Doctor cannot accompany him on. Tension strains through the air like a rope pulled to tight. Based on the song "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes
1. I Swear I was Born Right in that Doorway

**CHAPTER ONE: **"_I Swear I was Born Right in that Doorway_".

_mostly fluff for now~_

* * *

It really hadn't been that long since his last case. Maybe a week? Maybe two? Probably two. For the first few days after their last one came to a close, Sherlock had lapsed into one of his fits where all he did was lay on the couch or on the floor and stare up at the ceiling; vacantly contemplating his existence. Mrs. Hudson would often come in and try to get him to eat something, but he would have nothing of the sort. Sherlock would ignore her and continue on with… whatever it was that he was doing.

After those depressing seventy-five-and-half hours his attitude changed entirely and he began to study things and make a mess of test tubes and scientific artifacts of all shapes and sizes in the kitchen and eventually across the entire flat. His life for those few days was a whirlwind of scientific endeavor. Sherlock would speak to himself or to Watson, even if he wasn't listening. Sometimes he would leave for hours and Sherlock wouldn't notice until he came back, or until told him to keep quiet. He always worked better when talking aloud, but lately it had become a habit of his to_specifically_ speak to John. He found some comfort in it, and his interjection and/or comments (when there were any) were much welcomed. He made Sherlock feel like he was doing something important, which was quite helpful because his "quiet fits" consolidated mostly of him contemplating why the hell he existed at all.

Plus, they had basically nothing at all in common except for their understanding of human anatomy and things of the like. Sherlock came to realize that he liked that about John, and that was new.. because the only thing he ever liked about anyone before was their willingness to do what he told them to do (which was also something John was good at.) It was miraculous, really. Sherlock could have conversations with him without feeling like he was speaking to a wall or to someone who didn't care about what he was jabbering on and on about. Even when the Army doctor didn't respond or Sherlock _knew_ he wasn't listening; he didn't care. John had become his only friend, and Sherlock was beginning to accept that as a rare fact in his life.

There was something about him though. Something that intruiged Sherlock. He'd never experienced andthing like it before, and he both loved and hated it. When John speak -especially when it was about knowledge-based things or something having to do with a case- his breath would catch in his throat, and all he could do was watch those lips move. John Watson wasn't the most clever human being he'd come across, but the_way _he was clever did strange things to the way Sherlock thought and felt.

It was about a month and a half since they had argued about whether or not to turn the heat on. Sherlock didn't see the point in it, John thought it was "bloody cold, and you're crazy." Fall had gradually been convulsing its way into Winter. It was quiet and endless and the snow made no noise. All of the other seasons were filled with bustling people and animals and the screams and yells of children. Sherlock had taken to smoking indoors during those months because he didn't like all the commotion. For the last three days, after discarding his vials and strange mixes and getting yelled at by John for not cleaning them up, Sherlock had been going back and forth between angrily playing his Violin and having a smoke outside alone. John had stopped trying to get Sherlock to stop smoking, having come to realize that it was probably the one thing that would keep Sherlock sane when there was no case to run in circles around.

He began after a time to complain about how positively bored he was. The only thing that had peaked his interest even a little was going out for dinner a some Cafe with John because he had refused for days on end to leave the flat and get groceries. The interesting part was not the dinner, but what had happened afterwards.. They had just entered the hallway of 221 and were about to go up the stairs to their flat, but were halted in the heat of an argument about death and bodies and how it pertained to some random scenario Sherlock had come up with involving a dead man. It wasn't a big row, really, although their raised voices called out Mrs. Hudson to see what the matter was. It was more of a disagreement on theories, and they were both yelling and speaking doctoral terms that poor couldn't wrap her mind around. As the hallway was small, the two were standing very close. Sherlock yelled down at Watson, and John yelled back (although in a calmer matter, I suppose) up at him. Their fists were clenched, but Sherlock wasn't angry.. it took him far to long to realize that he was restraining himself.

The way John was speaking and the words pouring out of his mind and through his mouth were doing horrible and wonderful things to Sherlock, and he was overcome with the desire to shove the Army doctor against the wall and shut him up by..well.. it involved that amazing mouth and a lot of tongue. Sherlock had never felt a desire such as this before, and it scared him so much that he dropped the argument and just walked up to their flat without a single word.

That was yesterday.

Today he sat on the couch at one in the afternoon with a cup of tea and messy hair. He'd only just woken up, having spent halt the night playing violin until called and asked him to quiet down for the fourth time.

"John, a pen please.." Sherlock mumbled, refusing to move from his position. A pen was thrown at him and hit him harshly, landing in his lap. He picked it up, shooting John a dirty look, and held it in his hands. It wasn't long before he started twisting it back and forth, muttering inaudible things. The consulting detective did not actually use the pen, an action that made John just stare at him with disgruntled anger.

After a few minutes he yelled at it to shut up and threw it at the wall. "DAMMIT, JOHN!" Sherlock continued. He jumped up and thrusted the window open, glaring outside and staring at all the people passing by who weren't coming to talk to him about their troubles. A cold gust of wind brought flecks of snow through the window and Sherlock turned around, staring at John with strangely wide eyes. "I need a case!" he said. "Am I not good enough? !" he yelled that last bit and Mrs. Hudson appeared shortly. John was watching him, amused, sitting in a his chair with a newspaper. "Good lord, Sherlock! You'd think the house was burning down with all the racket you're making." she tutted.

Apparently she had already been on her way up; she had a tray of tea with her and she set it gently on the coffee table that Sherlock was now standing on. Sherlock ignored her words. " I need a paper." he stated. John looked up at him and gave a 'what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you' look while holding up the paper he'd been sitting with for the past hour. "_All_ of the papers." Sherlock yelled. He stepped gracelessly off the table and into his room, taking his robe off and tossing it valiantly into the corner of the room after he slammed the door and proceeded to get dressed.

Mrs. Hudson huffed and cleaned up the small mess Sherlock had made on the coffee table. She looked over to John deliberately. "The two of you have been arguing a tad more lately, haven't you?" It wasn't really a question, more like an answer to a statement she had in her head. She sighed a little, and so did John. He knew exactly where this was going, and so he attempted to ignore it by opening the newspaper once more and re-reading an article that was quite boring. "Domestic rows are the worst, dear. It'll be over soon." She smiled a little, then her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sure your sex life isn't doing all to well either, is it." she looked at John with some form of pity and sat down across from the man who was trying so damn hard to misplace every single word that came out of her mouth. Mrs. Hudson looked over to Sherlock's room before leaning forward and putting a hand on John's knee gently.

"When I was young like you my lovers and I would, well.." she blushed a little and covered her lips with her hand like only an old lady could do. She raised her eyebrows and continued to speak in a whisper. "We would tie eachother up. You know.. '_bondage_'".

John dropped the paper to the floor and stood abruptly. "Yep, leaving. I am _leaving_." he said aloud, staring into the distance like he'd just woken up from a horrid dream. Why did people always have to think these things about him and Sherlock? It was nothing like that. John couldn't even stand the man more than half the damn time. John walked quickly over to his coat and took it off the hanger, putting it on without really thinking. Mrs. Hudson just continued talking, like always. John hadn't really expected her to stop.

"It was really very lovely, dear. It helped out sex lives out quite a bit, and we didn't argue as much anymore either." she sounded almost as though she were pleading now. Like she honestly thought she was helping with something. John stared at her in disbelief. What the hell was wrong with her?

A sharp laugh came from the doorway that made John practically jump out of his shoes. Mycroft had apparently just walked in. "I highly doubt that would be an issue, dear Mrs. Hudson." he chuckled, then wandered past John to sit in Sherlock's favorite chair. It was perfect timing; Sherlock appeared in the doorway buttoning up that magnificent purple shirt that made John immediately look the other direction because he didn't want to give Mrs. Hudson any more reason to continue speaking.

"And what are we talking about, then?" he asked, coming up behind John's chair and sitting down in it, raising his hands to a point under his chin. It was a comfortable position, and it helped him to keep calm around his brother.

"Oh horrible things, Sherly. Things that would _baffle _you." he smiled slyly. Having heard one or two words from Mrs. Hudson, it wasn't hard for Sherlock to figure it out.

"_Sex_, Mycroft, does not 'baffle' me." he replied with a short glare.

Mycroft laughed. "Of course" he smiled again. Sherlock looked away from his brother and finished buttoning up his purple shirt the rest of the way. The fact that Sherlock didn't respond made Mycroft smile even wider.

"What are you here for, Mycroft. Another case?" Sherlock sighed and looked to his brother, bored.

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing like that. I'm simply.. _checking up on you_, Sherly. Mother's been worrying." he smiled.

"Mother barely remembers my name. Same with you, apparently; I don't know who '_Sherly_' is. Now get out of my house." Sherlock snatched away the cigarette that Mycroft had held out to him and lit it, walking over to the window to vacantly stare out.

Mycroft mentally shrugged and stood, giving the smallest of bows. "Later then, my dear brother." he said, then left. shook her head with a quick irritated sigh and Mrs. Hudson followed him out, giving John no more reason to leave the flat as fast as he damn well could.

Sherlock stood at the window and watched Mycroft drive off. He was only happy about one single part of the visit; his brother had a great taste in cigarettes.

The day passed uneventfully, other than for the fit Sherlock threw when he found no cases in the papers and ended up ripping them to pieces and yelling about how he might go break a thousand criminals out of jail just to give himself something to do. At some point he convinced John to go get groceries, but they had take-out anyway because Mrs. Hudson had left and neither of them wanted to cook. Sherlock mentioned lighting a fire, but it took him about two hours to actually get off the couch and do it. After a while he just began to play his violin again, and that was the extent of their adventures that night.


	2. I Especially am Slow

**CHAPTER TWO:**_ "I Especially am Slow"_

(short chapter is short)

* * *

The next day was, thankfully, much different. Lestrade came knocking in the door at six in the morning and Miss Hudson dragged a rugged, half-naked Sherlock out of bed. He grumbled and sat down on the couch next to Watson, who had apparently been pulled out before him. Sherlock moaned with distaste when he saw Lestrade sitting across from them in Sherlock's favorite chair. He grabbed a folded small blanket from off the side of the couch and wrapped it tightly around himself before falling sideways into John's lap, using him as a pillow. He was far to tall to stretch his legs out on the small couch, so he curled up intp something resembling the fetal position on his side and closed his eyes. It took less than a minute for his breathing pattern to change to that of a sleeping man.

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock." he said, watching the curly haired man. He shook his head. "Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade yelled, and Sherlock angrily opened his eyes. "Can you not speak to my secretary, Lestrade? I'm afraid I'm quite busy." he said, emotionless.

"And who the hell is your secretary?" Lestrade growled.

"Watson, Lestrade." Sherlock motioned his hand in the air "Lestrade, Watson." he added, as though he were introducing them for the first time.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He leaned forward and closed his hands together. "Alright listen, Sherlock. We've got a case for you. Sent a crew out and they wound up dead." he added. Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Go on." he said, tired and bored. Lestrade looked like he wanted to kill Sherlock Holmes.

"So we can't figure it out! We need you. It was a commercial fishing ship from Germany. Some blokes on a cruise like picked up a distress call that said 'The Captain is dead. The crew is dead. Send help.' and that's it. We sent out a search an' rescue and none of 'em have responded for a week. We think they're.._gone_." Lestrade sat up straight and impatiently waited for a response.

Sherlock turned so that he faced the ceiling, his head still in John's lap and his knees bent and jutting upward. What looked to be one paper unfolded into five, filled with dates and times and a whole matter of unconventional things that didn't seem to add up. "So what place do the London Police have in Whitewatch?" Sherlock asked, inquiring toward the town the ship had apparently been closest to. A docking town on the west coast of England and around four to five hours away from London.

Lestrade didn't ask how Sherlock knew the name of the town already. "Well they sent out their own search party and.. hyou know. They're dead. It's a German boat that makes this an _international_ issue. So Scotland Yard was sent out." Lestrade explained.

'International Issue' was what got Sherlock's attention. He smiled. "Watson and I will need transportation." Sherlock relaxed a little more, feeling comfortable on John's lap.

John rolled his eyes and stared at a corner of the ceiling, trying to figure out why he had not yet told Sherlock to piss off.

Lestrade stared. "Sherlock you're going alone." he stated, and the word 'alone' hit Sherlock like a barrel full of bricks. He closed his eyes, and Lestrade knew the consulting detective was holding back a sigh.

Sherlock had become so used to being around Watson, even when most of the time his presence didn't even register until Sherlock _wanted _it to. He couldn't really imagine having a case without John, although it was something he would ritually do all the time before they had been introduced. How was he supposed to think without John's rigid stance and random blurts of 'Amazing' or 'Wow'. The criticism, the typing. _The typing._ It really helped Sherlock think, and John's little mumblings while he wrote of course. The way he would provide small inputs to Sherlock's thoughts like his opinions or just silly little things. Outside conclusions, no matter how wrong they were, often helped Sherlock figure things out faster.

Then again, a break from John could easily be exactly what he needed. Honestly, he'd never been attracted to anyone before, and his odd and hate filled attraction towards the Army doctor (who was pretty much his polar opposite) scared the hell out of him, which was also new and strange. Generally Sherlock had full control over his mind and body and emotions; he slept when he wanted to sleep, at only when he thought it was needed, felt when he wanted to feel. He didn't care much for anyone at all and yet was able to convince them with a simple smile that he's the nicest hut on the planet -if they didn't know him beforehand- but not around Watson. He was still his regular robotic self, of course, but every day he could feel himself slipping; becoming more and more comfortable. It was strange and new and it made him question his own mind. Sherlock Holmes had made a _friend_, and that was something he could not (maybe even _would_ not) understand.


	3. And I Don't Know Where I Am

**CHAPTER 3**: "_And I Don't Know Where I Am, I Don't Know Where I've Been_"

* * *

John looked up at Lestrade, confusion filling his features. "But.. I've been in the British _Army_" he noticed that John had tensed a bit when Lestrade said he couldn't accompany him.

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm sorry, Doctor. We're already pullin strings to get Holmes in." he explained.

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought about it. He'd never really had to contemplate the issue of being without John before. Not for any real purpose, anyway. But this was it. This would be Sherlock's first case without the Army doctor in quite a long time. It was difficult to imagine being somewhere without John, his tense stone. The man was what kept Sherlock down to Earth, what made him get up in the morning. _Fascinating_ Sherlock thought as he realized it. Fear jolted through him and he savored it. All of these new feelings were so odd to him.. he didn't know how to comprehend or organize them all, and that scared him a little. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at John. His mouth was moving and his eyes conveyed annoyance. Sherlock didn't bother to listen to what he and Lestrade were arguing about. He could tell Watson was upset because of the way he held himself; shoulders like boards and his back straight and rigid. He glared at Lestrade with those Captain's eyes, reminding the man of his military rank with just his facial features alone. Sherlock's eyelids closed.

"_I'm going with_." John demanded, staring Lestrade down.

Sherlock smiled. "My dear Watson, I'm flattered by your reluctance to leave my side but I'm afraid we'll have to go it alone this time." Sherlock watched as John's eyes turned down on him.

John glared "Not for you, you prick. For the people who have been _dying_." the Army doctor said sternly. Sherlock was a bit hurt by the comment, which surprised him a little; words just don't do that sort of thing to Sherlock Holmes. He sat up and wrapped the blanket a bit more tightly around himself.

Lestrade sighed and stood. "Think about it, Sherlock. I'll have a cab stop by for you at noon," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. Lestrade stood there and looked at the two men on the couch for a second before shaking his head and leaving, not saying a word of goodbye.

Sherlock waited a moment before standing and heading to his room. He wanted to tell John how he felt about the situation, that he wanted him to come with as well, but Sherlock just couldn't do it. It bothered him that he didn't know _why_ he cared so much about John coming with or not, but instead of trying to figure it out he shoved the whole package into a little box and locked it all up inside his head. It would be better for him to get away from John for a while anyway. Sherlock changed his clothes and then started shoving others into some random suitcase that was John's.

"You could just ask before you take my things, Sherlock." John was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, leaning against the frame and watching Sherlock pack.

Sherlock made a small noise in return that stated "I have no fucks to give you, John Watson" quite clearly. John rolled his eyes.

"You're not seriously going to leave without me, are you?" the doctor asked. He sounded both worried and angered. Sherlock looked over his friend, absolutely no emotion visible in his features. John just waited, staring at him while Sherlock bore into him with his eyes.

There were bags under John's bottom lids but his hair was messy, proving he'd got sleep. Although what little sleep the man had been getting was plagued with nightmares. Probably of the war. Sherlock wondered if John would sleep better with someone by his side at night, but he quickly shoved the thought back into the dark corners of his mind where it had come from. Unfortunately pushing it aside really didn't work well at all, because half a second later it all came seeping back. John was wearing his robe with nothing but boxers underneath, and Sherlock Holmes had never been so overwhelmed with desire in his entire life, what with Watson's messy hair and defiantly loyal gaze. Sherlock turned abruptly back to the suitcase. "Yes, John. I do believe I am." he answered finally, clearing his throat.

The way Sherlock had looked at him before turning around had startled John a little, but it also made him wonder what was going through the consulting detective's head It was like he was devouring John with his eyes. The Army doctor found himself gazing into them, wanting... more?_ what? _John scowled at Sherlock for confusing him with just one simple look, for stripping his barriers away and making him re-think his entire existence in just a mere three seconds.

John didn't listen to what Sherlock was saying. He tore his eyes away from the curly haired man's lips and left, walking deliberately up to his room and closing the door. John felt horrible. Like his life had just spun backwards and flipped upside-down and he couldn't make sense of anything. It was like he'd just woken up from a bad dream, and there was his best friend and flatmate standing in the brand new shiny doorway,_ and Sherlock Holmes was the best thing that had ever happened to him_..

John went to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. He felt it like ice on his cheeks and in his eyes, running down his hair; this wasn't a dream. This was real... John quickly left the bathroom and tore through his dresser in search of a pen and paper. Sherlock was in the habit of taking all of John's pens, so he had begun to hide them so that he alone knew where they were when he needed one. John threw the notebook open onto his bed and made sure his door was locked. He sat on his bed and stared at it, wondering if what h was about to do was even worth it or if he was just being crazy from sleep deprivation.

Ten minutes later Sherlock began to play John's favorite tune on the violin downstairs. It pulled on his heart, and something in his mind clicked. It was worth it, and it was what he needed to do to figure this out. To figure_ himself_ out.

On the right side of the paper he wrote "Reasons why I could possibly be in love with my flatmate" and on the left "Why I could not **_ever_** love Sherlock Holmes" (underline the 'ever' three times)


	4. I Realized That I Need You

**CHAPTER FOUR:** "_I Realized that I Need You_"

(I'm giving myself so many feels with this... )

* * *

When John looked up again it was almost noon. Time had gone by with incredible speed. John hadn't even noticed that Sherlock had stopped playing the violin. Under the left side there was a giant list that spanned three pages, and under the right there was one simple sentence.

"_Because he is the most magnificent, curious human being I have ever had the pleasure to meet._" it stated quite clearly in John's quick slanted handwriting he'd developed during his time abroad. That one simple sentence was the thing John continued to stare at, his brows furrowed. The Army doctor swore and tossed the notebook aside, hopping out of his bed and pulling open his dresser drawer. He threw on a black shirt with a woven gray cardigan, some slacks, and quickly left the room. John's heart was racing, pounding in his chest as he hurried down the stairs.

He didn't want Sherlock to leave...

The tousle-haired man was opening the door, his shoes in his hand instead of on his feet. Sherlock was obviously trying to leave without John noticing. John was surprised to see the closest look to guilt spread over Sherlock's face that he'd _ever_ seen, but it was gone in an instant. John shoved his feet in his shoes and went out the door; Sherlock had been holding it open. He stood there staring at the taller man, tryng his best to look disappointed instead of incredibly hurt.

"John you are not coming with me." Sherlock stated. No eye-contact.. Sherlock stopped to put his shoes on his feet before walking briskly past Watson, practically ignoring his existence like always.

John wanted to scream at him. _Look at me, you prick! _He threw his hands out. "Sherlock! You can't possibly do this alone. I'm a doctor, Sherlock. You _need_ me." he spat angrily, standing at the top of the stairs and glaring down at his best friend.

Sherlock stopped at the landing. Paused. He went rigid. The tall man turned and stared at the step below Watson as though he were hoping, _wishing_ John would take that step.

Sentiment looks lovely on Sherlock. John found himself relaxing a little, seeing the torture in Sherlock's body language made him feel bad for yelling. He'd seen it a lot in the war: strong men who were to scared to show their emotions, and when they finally did it was like they became a whole new person.

"I am well aware of that fact." Sherlock's voice was emotionless and elegant as always, contrasting with his current body language. "That is precisely why I must go alone." John took the step, and a jolt of something resembling electricity rushed through his rigid spine and Sherlock held off a gasp, his eyes snapping to John's face. Another step, and another, an then John was standing directly in front of him.. looking up while Sherlock looked down. John was still very obviously angry. Sherlock couldn't help but to watch the way his only friend's eyes and muscles shifted when he was filled with that hateful emotion.

"That makes absolutely no sense" John almost yelled. John wanted to savor the look in Sherlock's eyes forever. He had lost this argument when it first began, John knew that. His loyalty to the consulting detective had the habit of_ constantly_ betraying him. Still, he could try. Fighting was in his nature, after all.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, like he was exhausted. "It makes more sense than I would care to admit, John Watson." he stated quietly.

Something about how Sherlock had said it made John ease off a little and gaze fixedly into Sherlock's eyes. _What?_ he thought, hearing it over and over again in his head.

Sherlock's hands were tensed fists in his pockets, Johns were identical at his sides, They stood there for a few moments. Silent.

_What the hell are you dong?_ John thought, angry with himself.

_Restraining the urge to kiss him.. _Sherlock answered the same question within his own head, scaring himself to death by realizing just how much he wanted to grab John by that ridiculous cardigan and press his lips to the military man's. Sherlock ran his thumb over John's dogtags.. he'd nicked them a while ago but John had never noticed. They'd been safelt in his jacket pocket for the past few weeks now.

"Keep yourself well, John,"

Sherlock's entire image and voice diverted so quickly back to the machine it always was that John wondered if he was just dreaming, fantasizing. Then Sherlock was gone, and the wooden door closed, and John stood alone in the hallway...

Feeling more alone that he'd ever felt in his entire life...


End file.
